Hermione felt a shiver go through her; of fear, but also from the tension between them, a strain of animosity and calculation filled the air.
He stepped closer to her and caught hold of her left hand, lifting it as he slid his thumb across the ring that reappeared on her hand when he stared down at it.
“How does this work?”
“The potion is based on Magical principles similar to the Fidelius,” she said, slipping her hand free. “It's only visible if you know to look for it. Otherwise it's undetectable. Only you and I can see it.”
Malfoy quirked an approving eyebrow.
“I don't believe I've heard of that potion.”
“It's new,” she said stiffly.
“Yours?”
Hermione gave a reluctant nod. “It's not actually that useful. It only works on metals.”
“Interesting,” he murmured, stepping closer.
Every time he drew near, she felt a renewed awareness of how dangerous he was. The dark magic came off of him in waves; it clung to his clothes and his hair and almost emanated from his skin. It was as though he wore a cloak of darkness and rage that he was simply keeping in check around her.
There was so much darkness. All the deaths he was responsible for.
He was drenched in them.
“Let's try again. And see how long you can keep it up.” His lips pulled into brief smirk. “I won't kiss you — this time.”
He drove into her mind again. She kept him out with her walls for a minute while she organised her mind and memories. Then she pretended to have the shield give away.
She wasn't sure she was actually good at it, or if he was having the decency to restrict himself from rifling through all her memories. He allowed her strong attempts at distracting him to succeed. After she'd successfully done it a dozen times, he withdrew.
Hermione felt as though her head were about to crack open; as though the pain were a form of pressure that threatened to break through her skull. The pain was agonising. Her eyes were welling up with tears, and she bit down on her lip to try to keep from crying.
“Drink this,” he ordered, slipping a vial of pain relief potion into her hand. “Otherwise you may black out when you try to apparate. I wouldn't recommend it.”
She swallowed it, fairly certain he wasn't going to poison her.
“Did that happen to you?” she asked when the pain began easing so she could speak again and her vision was no longer littered with flashing black spots.
“More than once,” Malfoy said shortly. “My training was — rigorous.”
She nodded. It still seemed hard to believe he was the same school bully she had known.
Coldness and harshness were built up around him like the walls of a castle. All that scarcely subdued rage.
The boy who got boxes of sweets and had a spot bought for him on a quidditch team, who cried and whined over a scratched arm, was gone. Everything soft and indolent and pampered about him was carved away by the war. He hadn't bought his way through Voldemort's ranks with galleons. He'd paid in blood.
Everything was so hard and exacting. His smirking and leering, and the vagaries of his courtesy all felt like an act. Like a mask he was wearing to disguise just
If she wanted to succeed, she needed to get past his mask and coldness and rage. He might be intending to use her just as a form of vindictive or amusing stress relief, but she was still determined to become more.
She needed to draw out his confidence until she could understand his motivation — until she found a vulnerability she could slip through.
No one was pure ice. Not even Malfoy.
There was something about him. In his eyes. Something that looked like fire hidden deep within. She needed to find a way to reach it and then fuel it into something she could utilise.
He expected her to hate him and try to manipulate him with false kindness and sympathy. She had to be clever about it. More clever than him.
“Was that after fifth year?”
He looked at her somewhat sharply.
“Yes,” he said it in a clipped tone.
“Your aunt?”
“Hmm,” he hummed in confirmation.
They were both staring at each other intently.
“Not the only thing you learned that summer,” she said.
“Are you needing a confession for something, Granger? Should I tell you everything I've done?” He drew closer so that he towered above her, and sneered down in her face.
She forced herself not to shrink or cower back. She stared up into his eyes.
“Do you want to?” she asked.
There was the faintest flash of surprise in his expression. He seemed caught off guard by the question.
He was lonely. She'd suspected as much, but now she felt certain. Dead mother, insane father. He was high up in Voldemort's ranks and they were notoriously filled with backstabbing. If he ever had any regrets, he'd never told anyone.
“No,” he said, voice sharp as he stepped away from her.
She didn't push. If he thought she were pushing, he'd shut up like a clam. She didn't need to know. She just needed him to realize he wanted to tell someone—
— that he wanted to tell
It would make her emotionally valuable to him. It would be a hook. An opening.
It would make her interesting.